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Material for this gossip, then, is brought into the kitchens, the cottages, and the bar-parlours by Mr. Marrapit's domestic staff. Mrs. Armitage, his cook, has given tales of his "grimness" to the cottages where her comfortable presence is welcomed on Sunday and Thursday afternoons. This would seem to bear out Mr. William Wyvern's allusion to the minor prophet element of his character.
Marrapit's shrubbery. But two more peeps from our bridge need we take, and then our characters will be ready to meet us upon the further side. A glance from here will reveal to us Mrs. Major, that masterly woman, inscribing in her diary: "Getting on with Mr. M. Should sue. Precip. fat." Fill out the abbreviations to which Mrs. Major, in her diary, was prone, and we have: "Getting on with Mr.
"It's 'ard damn 'ard," Mr Fletcher said on that occasion. "I'm a gardener, I am; not a treasure-'unter." Murmurs of sympathy chorused endorsement of this view. Finally there are the words of Frederick, son of Mrs. Armitage, and assistant to Fletcher, whose pleasure it is to set on end the touzled hair of the youth of Paltley Hill by obviously exaggerated stories of Mr. Marrapit's grim rule.
Marrapit's mouth slowly returned towards his plate: "Reiterate that. From me?" "From you," said George. The toast dropped from trembling fingers. "I?" Mr. Marrapit dragged the word to tremendous length. "I? Is it conceivable that you expect money from me?" "I only ask." "I only shudder. Might I inquire the amount?" "The Dean told me of a practice I could have for 400 pounds." "Tea!" exclaimed Mr.
To hang on for the shadow would be, he felt, to lose the substance that would stand represented by Mr. Marrapit's gratitude. But this preposterous buoyancy of youth! The rain that beat upon his face cooled his brow; seemed to cool his brain. Before the first mile was crossed he had vacillated from his purpose. When he said to his followers "Only another half-mile," his purpose was changed.
Masterly in all things, this woman was most masterly in her cups. Into Mr. Marrapit's dreams there came a whistle. He pushed at Sleep; she crooned to him and he snuggled against her. Upon his brain there rapped a harsh Wow! He wriggled from his bedfellow; she put an arm about him, drew him to her. Now there succeeded a steady wash of sound rising, falling, murmuring persistent against his senses.
He gasped: "When I mistook the cats !" She gasped: "Mr. Marrapit's face !" He gasped: "Mrs. Major's !" The exhaustion of their mirth gave them pause at last. George wiped his running eyes; Mary tremendously blew her little nose, patted her gold hair where it eagerly straggled. "I feel better after that," George said. She told him, "So do I heaps.
A detective shall decide." George grew quite cold. Employment of a detective had not occurred to him. They were at the front door. He put a hand on Mr. Marrapit's arm. "Oh, not a detective. Don't get a detective." "If need be I will get forty detectives. I will blacken the countryside with detectives." George grew quite hot. "Uncle, let us keep this private. Leave it with me. Rely on me.
Marrapit's household had considerably disturbed Mr. Marrapit's peace. Orphaned by the death of his mother, George had gone into the guardianship of his uncle while in his middle teens. The responsibility had been thrust upon Mr. Marrapit by his sister. Vainly he had writhed and twisted in fretful protest; she shackled him to her desire by tearful and unceasing entreaty.
It is the habit of Clara and Ada, his maids, squeezing at the gate from positions dangerous to modesty into which their ardent young men have thrust them it is their habit, thus placed, to excuse themselves from indelicate embraces by telling alarming tales of Mr. Marrapit's "carrying on" should they be late. He is a "fair old terror," they say. The testimony of Mr.
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